


poison but tasty

by safeandsound13



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Dystopia, Partners in Crime, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:28:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23357005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/safeandsound13/pseuds/safeandsound13
Summary: In a world where genetics and individual resilience decide who gets to procreate and who doesn't, babies are a rare breed. That's why Murphy gets the lucrative idea to steal one, and sell it. In comes Josie, who kind of, sort of? Maybe? Has the same idea? He figures, what the hell. Might as well combine their efforts and split the profits.or, Two Psychopaths and a Baby.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin, Emori/John Murphy (The 100), Josephine Lightbourne & John Murphy
Comments: 18
Kudos: 31
Collections: Chopped Madness





	poison but tasty

After Sanctum was ravaged by a global-warming induced sea-level rise (what do you expect, with humankind’s selfish nature and two suns and all?), what was left of mankind settled on small islands spread across the planet. With less landmass and even fewer resources, it left society hyper-focused on genetics in order to keep the world from overpopulating again. 

Generally, there’s the implant you get at twelve, to make sure there’s no unwanted pregnancies. Then the general genetic work-up around sixteen, to make sure you’re not carrying any scary diseases or have serial killer genes. You take the first Test at eighteen, and -- thanks to Griffin’s Law -- get a re-do at twenty-three once your brain has fully developed. 

If you fail both, you’re sterilized. 

The boring DNA stuff is testing nature, the Tests nurture. A simulation study, designed to have you subjected to non-stop mental stress and depression-inducing stimuli to see how long it takes to _break_ you.

Eugenics. A funny thing.

Which all brings Murphy here: stashed out in a worn down boat in the forest behind his co-worker’s house, about to steal his stupid baby. 

He’s thought it all out, _Proud Mary_ blasting over his headphones, mopping floors, squeegeeing windows, emptying trash cans, mopping several more floors, leering over at Officer Blake out of the corner of his eye whenever he got the chance, and scheming. 

Blake was the only reason he’d even gotten the job after the multiple offenses on his record, and while he still treated him like a piece of shit like the rest, he was a firm believer in, cue eye-roll, ‘ _second chances_ ’. Murphy figured it was just a regular old Savior Complex, but at least it was one that kept him from being homeless.

Lately, he’d been stupidly smiling at his cellulair device in between closing cases, booking purps and patrolling streets more often than not. More baby pictures, Murphy figured with a sneer on his face. And that’s when he Realized. 

Murphy _hated_ babies. All they did was sleep, eat, shit, and recycle the process, and it didn’t get much better as they got older. He wouldn’t willingly condemn anyone else to the life he’s had, and being a human kind of sucked by definition anyway, so it’s not like he was too bothered when he underwent the Procedure a few years back. He didn’t have any strong feelings about the entire process either. He was here for a good time, not a long time, and what other people wanted to do to each other was really none of his business. 

He met Emori, and she felt the same. (It was the classic love story. Boy meets girl on the black market, girl tries to sell him faulty tech, boy tells her that could’ve killed him, girl says she doesn’t give two fucks, boy and girl make out against the wall behind her stall. Happy ever after and all.) But you see, Emori, she had a genetic mutation, showing up as a deformed hand. 

Her malformation was pretty much the coolest thing about her -- gave her a little unique edge on the rest of the idiots habitating their planet, looking more of the same with each generation -- but it was also the thing that kept her from even undergoing the Tests. Those people were seen as a special kind of outcasts. So on principle, he thought the whole process was stupid from that moment on. Not that anyone cared about his opinion.

Eviction notice after eviction notice, shitty paycheck after shitty paycheck, goofy “ _How are my favorite girls?_ ” after goofy “ _I’ll be home soon, babe_ ”, and resentment having festered, Murphy was trading his favorite knife for a fishing boat. 

The plan was to camp out in Blake’s backyard lake, and once it was pitch dark, taking into account at some point he would have to let go of the thing to go to sleep, Murphy would break in their perky little eviction notice-less house, and steal his daughter. Emori has tons of connections in the black market, and they’d be able to get rid of it easy peasy without ever having to worry about being thrown out on the streets again. Hell, considering the rarity of babies, he could probably quit his crap job and be a trophy husband for the rest of his sorry life. He figured Blake and his wife could always have another. 

An hour in, and suddenly someone is climbing into his damn boat, rocking him awake from his small slumber. It’s almost winter, and it’s not freezing yet, but it’s chilly, and the sharp surprised intake of breath burns his lungs nonetheless. 

“What the fuck?” He curses, heartbeat in his throat as he scrambles backwards from the dripping figure. He wasn’t planning on dying like this. 

She beams at him, a little wickedly, if he does say so himself, dropping her backpack with a loud thud. “What are you doing here?”

His eyebrows furrow together. “Who are you?”

She shrugs, collecting her hair on one shoulder and squeezing all the water out of it calmly, like she has all the time in the world and the two of them aren’t illegally occupying someone’s backyard. She nudges her chin at the thwart at the front of the boat behind him. “Why the burlap sack?”

“None of your business,” Murphy sneers, crossing his arms over his chest. Who does this chick thinks she is, asking questions like she owns the place? He’s not an amateur.

“Are you here for Clarke?” She wonders, an almost excited tilt to her voice, and just starts pulling her shirt over her head. She only sounds half-joking, “Are you going to hold her for ransom?”

He just blinks at her as she toes off her boots.

“Hmmm.” Flicking her shirt aside carelessly, she taps her finger against her chin, considering him. “You don’t even know her name, so it’s not her.” There’s a quirk of her eyebrow as she starts pushing her pants down her narrow hips. “Bellamy then?”

Looming over him in just her bra and panties he remains silent and keeps her gaze with an irritated glare. If she thinks he’s going to look away because of some nudity and win some sort of secret power-play between them, she’s mistaken. She’s not really his type. Too skinny. Unblemished and put together, even looking like a drowned rat. 

“So it’s the baby,” she concludes, matter-of-factly. She’s being considerably chill about this whole thing. Too chill, probably. He should be worried. “Kidnapping isn’t my first choice of crime, but it’s noble I guess.”

He grits his teeth. How did she figure that all out from a fucking burlap sack? “No. I’m just fishing,” he presses, eyes pointedly flicking over to the sad excuse of a fishing rod by his feet. He did think this through, and all. 

“Oh.” Her eyes gleam in the moonlight, and he for the life of him can figure out why. Her arms cross over her chest, pushing up her breasts and he almost rolls his eyes at the predictability. Conveniently attractive girls and depending on their good looks to get them everywhere. Weak. “Murder then? Are you a baby-murderer?”

Figuring she isn’t out here for a nightly swim either, and even he -- no matter how little -- has morals, his nostrils flare in resignation. “I’m going to sell it for profit.”

“I’m Josephine Lightbourne,” she announces, like he’s passed some important test, sticking out a hand for him to shake. He ignores it. She seems to take it as a challenge, and winks. “But _you_ can call me Jo.”

“Hey, a little tip, criminal to criminal,” he deadpans, lifting himself back onto the pile of old ripped up sails and shredded fishnets he’d arranged as a makeshift bed. “Don’t go around telling people your real name while committing the said crime.”

  
  


“Okay, John Murphy.” She smugly kicks at the janitor suit, crumpled up beside her, name-tag still visible and he curses himself mentally. “Who says I’m here to commit a crime?”

“Trespassing is still a crime, even to the more fortunate,” he sneers, snorting mirthlessly. He might look like an imbecile to her, but he isn’t one. He didn’t miss her expensive manicure, the waterproof make-up and the high brand clothes she’s discarding like useless junk. She’s made of money. Which makes it all the more confusing as to why she is _here_. “You swam here?”

“You know what they say,” she teases, like they’re friends who tease each other, a tone to her voice he can best describe as a skip in your step, crouching down to rummage through her sealed backpack, made of the luxurious plastic stuff him and Emori would have to work the market at least three full days for. “Thirty minutes of physical exercise a day keeps the doctor away.” 

Josephine doesn’t look like she’s going to go away any time soon, and if he can’t get rid of her, he might as well start working on ignoring her. A lesser man would’ve given up on his plan by now, the risk too big, but until he knows what she has up her sleeve, it’s fair game. So he presses his cheap, cracked binoculars to his face and scouts their premises, through the thick branches of the patch of woods behind Blake’s house and right up to the master bedroom window, which, disappointedly, has it’s lights still on. 

He does this _instead_ of watching her pull on an floral sundress and soft pale pink sweater, in stark juxtaposition with his all-black outfit. She folds the skirt carefully underneath her before she plops down beside him with a soft little sigh. She rests her head on his shoulder, and he freezes, but refuses to give in and lean away from her. Almost sadly, she pouts, “I’m going to need that baby though.”

He last all of fifteen seconds before he breaks, curiosity growing too big to be contained. “Why?” He spits, inching away from her. 

Jo shrugs half-heartedly. “I just like babies.”

“Bullshit,” he barks back, the boat rocking a little with the force at which he twists his torso further away from her, so his back is pressed up again the thwart. He’s not sure what he can offer a girl when he has nothing but this boat that’s one move away from sinking to the bottom of this lake, besides something she can’t wants but can’t get. Not without his help. “You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”

She tuts, her perfect pink lips folding into a firm line. “You first.”

Clenching his jaw, he decides to just go for the truth, because it feels good to finally say it out loud to someone else besides Emori. “I’m going to buy me and my girlfriend a yacht. We’re going to get the fuck out of here and never look back.”

She crosses her arms over her chest, long hair creating dark wet spots on her sweater. “And become pescatarians? Boring,” She tsks, the sound like nails on a chalkboard. “Didn’t peg you for a quitter, John.”

He just raises his eyebrows impatiently, as if to say ‘well?’. He’s getting just a little restless.

Josephine just smiles slowly. “At first I was going to go all Rumpelstiltskin--”

“Bless you.”

“It’s a fairytale,” she says, pointedly, like somehow this is now the most important thing in the world for them to be discussing, former train of thought completely forgotten. A question mark in her voice the entire time she speaks. “Babies _like_ fairytales.”

Murphy snorts. “Babies like ‘boo boo bah bah’ too.” They’re worse at spelling than him, and that’s saying a lot. Besides, it’s not like he needs to know anything more about them than their monetary worth. He’s not going to be reading it any stories. He’s not going to be _raising_ the thing. Gross.

“Whatever.” She rolls her eyes, leaning back against the boat, moving her head in a way that makes her hair cascade down her back instead of using her hands to have to do it. Like it’s normal, she explains, “I was going to make someone give me their baby so then Gabriel would have to take me back.”

Rubbing his forehead with the bottom of his palm to release some of the tension behind there, the impending headache already ruining his life, hand moving down to pinch the bridge of his nose to give himself more time to change his mind and back out, he finally unwillingly inquires, “Who is Gabriel?”

“My fiancé,” Josephine answers. Then lifts a shoulder. “Or well.” She flicks her eyes up to the moon briefly, as if annoyed. “He was.” She sighs, weary, as if having told this story a thousand times and being bored with it. “And then he found out I lied about not having had the Procedure and then he wanted to kill me.” 

“Sounds like a charmer,” he comments, monotonously. 

For the first time tonight, she glares back at him. “Well, the guy I dated before that asked me to meet him at a diner and then blew his brains out in front of me.” Jo straightens out her skirt in her lap, clicking her tongue. “Your standards kind of lower after that.”

He scratches the back of his head, shoulders deflating a little. “Yikes.”

“Gabriel -- he was _good_. He truly was,” she breathes wistfully, her entire face lighting up for a moment before it turns more sullen. “He just really wanted a baby. I figured if I got one, he would take me back.” The grip on her skirt tightens, fingernails digging into her thighs. “But he just called me insane, talking about how I couldn’t fix us like this, had his lackey return him before they found out.”

For a moment, he wished he’d turned up _Disco Inferno_ and kept mopping the floor until he no longer felt like offing himself. That he never overheard anything about Bellamy’s personal life, and him and Emori would be dedicating their life to more pettier crimes in private. “Jesus, this isn’t your first rodeo?”

It’s like she doesn’t even hear him. She squints at him, as if suddenly remembering something. “You know, after I did what I did to get him to love me again, because talk about epic romantic gestures, and him spitting in my face like that --” She shakes her head, undergoing one of those face journeys he despises in movies. “I realized I don’t need him.” Her smile grows into a smirk, brown eyes sharply turning back on his. “I want something else.”

That, and a restraining order probably. Gabriel was probably done with her once and for all. And Murphy has to hand it to him, sticking it out long enough to get engaged to her.

He’s afraid to ask, but a feeling of dread is starting to drum behind his sternum. What kind of sick coincidence is this? Suddenly, he blurts, “Why Bellamy and Clarke?”

Josephine tilts her head slightly. “She’s the one.”

His nose scrunches up. “The one?”

She beams. “Who performed the Procedure on me, dummy.” 

He closes his eyes in defeat. How did he get here? He could’ve picked _anyone_ else. The office isn’t squirming with newborn fathers and mothers, but there’s at least two others he knows. He just had to go with Bellamy. The sick need to prove to himself that no matter what favor the guy pulled to get him a job, it didn’t make him _superior_. 

Yes, Murphy got drunk after the mayor started rationing vaccines for the seasonal Red Sun virus and refused to give his sick mother some. _Contra-indication_ , he called it in his formal letter on his expensive three inch thick, glossy writing paper. All it mean was that, with a history of drug abuse, it would be a waste. An addiction she only got to begin with because opioids went around for cheaper than food because of all his fucking taxes. Yeah, Murphy got drunk after the funeral and sought out the mayor’s son and accidentally ran him over with his car. He wanted Jaha to feel what he did. Helpless. And he did. Murphy got five years. He paid his dues. Bellamy wasn’t _better_ than him. 

And now he’s here. Endlessly frustrated with this cliché of a girl trying to steal his thunder. “So what is this about? _Revenge_?”

Another lackluster shrug and amused smile. “Not really. I want to show her I can do it better.” She twirls a strand of hair around her fingers, then purses her lips, eyes darkening. “She thinks she’s so perfect, with her mediocre looking husband and her shitty baby.” She scoffs loudly, dropping her hand back in her lap. “Babies are so stupid. All they do is eat and shit and sleep.” 

God, she sounds like _him._

She sits up, pushing herself up with her palms, suddenly eager. “You know he failed the test?”

Murphy’s eyebrows jump. Bellamy Blake? Sanctimonious ‘I do what I want but what I want is morally right always’, swoon-worthy curls, medal of honor, works out at least three times a week, eats vegetables without complaining, designated office mother hen, humanly impossible sized dick, Mr. Popular being, perfect family having _Bellamy Blake_? That one? She must really be mentally ill. 

“The simulation,” she reveals, pearly white teeth showing as she grins as dreamy grin. “When they tried to kill her in the Test -- it broke him. But she hid the results.” A whimsical sigh, and then she’s hugging her knees to her chest, resting her chin on top of them. “That’s romance.”

None of this adds up. “How do you know all of this?”

“I used to work at the same lab as the doc.” Her eyebrows raise at the skeptical look on his face. “Don’t look so surprised. I have a PhD in biology.” He guesses she has no _real_ reason to lie to him. Her eyes flick back over to his uniform at the front of the boat with a huff. “Besides, aren’t you a cleaning lady for a living?”

“Janitor,” he grits.

“Same difference,” she snaps back, then takes one hand of her calve to put it on top of his forearm. “It’s honest work. I like that in a man.”

He rips his arm away quickly, not wanting her to get the wrong ideas. “What were you doing there?”

“You know.” She winks. “Research.”

At least he didn’t get his job just to spy on Bellamy. He can claim that as a fucked up win regardless. “Until?”

“Until--” Her eyes flit away to the woods in front of them as she inhales deeply. Her armor cracks and she looks distraught, just for a moment. “Until I realized she didn’t even remember me. So I burned the whole place down.”

Logical conclusion. Murphy runs a hand through his greasy hair remembering the huge fire at a genetics lab not too long ago, marketed to the public as an ‘anti-Exodus movement terrorist attack’. It’s what they call the process. Exodus. Named like that after over two-thirds of their population died by forceful drowning, because their government is classy like that. “Jesus, that was _you?_ ” 

Josephine bitterly barrels on, like he isn’t even there. “The crazy part is, I think she actually thinks she’s doing this for the good of mankind.” A laugh, not far from being maniacal. “Gene manipulation. Furthering the human species.” She mocks what he assumes is Clarke’s voice, tone dropping a few octaves, “Our people.”

Silence stretches between the two of them for only a moment. He still hasn’t decided if he should jump ship, literally. 

She shakes her head lightly, ends of her hair startling to curl now they’re drying. Clucking her tongue, “Griffin’s Law. What a joke.”

His head spins. Murphy feels like he got wrapped up in something bigger than he intended to. Like, much, much bigger. He just wanted to steal one damn baby, for God’s sake. He didn’t need a psychotic sidekick with a sick lust for revenge at his side. “That was _her_?”

Something a lot like jealousy flashes across her eyes. “The one and only.”

He shakes his head, trying to physically get rid it of the million and one thoughts he’s having, pressing himself up. “What does her baby have to do with any of this?”

A slow smirk spreads across her face. “I’m going to out-do Clarke. I’m going to _be_ her.”

“So what?” Murphy starts, not understanding how she doesn’t get how absolutely lunatic she sounds. She did research. Infiltrated her victim’s life. Planned this. Yet this is the best she came up with. “You’re gonna shiv Clarke and then take advantage of her grieving husband so you can raise her baby together? All to prove that, what?” He snorts, narrowing his eyes. “You’re a psychopath?”

Her face remains blank, eyes shining with amusement nonetheless. “Coming from the guy who is trying to steal a baby.”

“It’s not like having one is hard,” he sneers, quick. It isn’t a contest, but he is not going to let her convince him he’s worse than her. He’ll be the last to say he’s a good person, but he’s definitely not Josephine Lightbourne levels of cuckoo. He’ll gladly let her take the crown on this one. “Less than a year and they could have it replaced.” 

Her lips start to curl up, but she stifles it. “Whatever you tell yourself to sleep at night.”

Murphy rolls his eyes. Despite knowing this girl is far beyond listening to reason, he can’t help but point out the obvious. If only to appease himself. “Him breaking like that -- you can’t force that kind of devotion, you know this, right? Even if you get him to ever look or let alone touch you, even if you try and be everything Clarke was and more, that still doesn’t mean he’s ever going to love you like he loves her.”

Her nostrils flare, her shoulders straightening as she claims, “I could use a nap.” He just stares at her, dumbfounded. She lays down on her side, placing her head in his lap without his consent as she closes her eyes firmly. 

Murphy slowly shifts his head to look down at her, completely frozen. He’s been in a situation like this before, and he chose survival. He’s not sure he can do it again. “You’re living in a fantasy world.”

“You know, John,” she purrs, eyes springing open, a cat-like look on her face as one of her hands reaches up to trace a circle over his chest leisurely. “This could be us -- the two of us. I could help you get the baby and sell it, and in return, you could help me.” She cups his chin, briefly, fond look on her face. “Or we could keep it. Bellamy is alright, but you’re so much cuter.”

“Exactly how do you see this going down?” He doesn’t really want to know. “The two of us co-parenting a stolen child destined to end up as fucked up as us, cops chasing us at every turn, my girlfriend living out on the streets?”

“They’re big on second chances those two.” She rolls her eyes again, pushing herself up from his lap, supporting her weight with one of her palms. “If we ever got caught, one sob story and I bet they’d build us a statue right in the middle of town square.” 

He exhales sharply through his nose. Something unfamiliar pricks at his chest, something a lot like guilt, and it revulses him. He pushes it away. “He already gave me a second chance.”

She bats her eyes, all innocent like. “And here you are, repaying him.”

“You and me are not the same,” he reinforces, not sure who he is trying to convince.

Josephine scoffs loudly, lip curling in disdain, free hand curling into a fist. “She took everything from me. She continues to take away bodily autonomy from boys and girls everywhere on a day to day basis, even while pregnant herself. Cruelly.” Her teeth grit together, and then she smiles, as if it’s funny. “And what does she get? A law named after her.” She relaxes her hand, her palm stained red. “One created only to make herself feel better about the fact she’s a monster.”

“You know there’s a law named after me, too?” Murphy deadpans, tired of her. This conversation. He could’ve been halfway back to his and Emori’s place right now. “You remind me of it.”

“How romantic,” she swoons, serious too. 

He raises his eyebrows, forehead creasing skeptically. He’s not going to hold moral superiority over her head when he’s here to babynap someone’s child for money, but she could really do with a little reality check. Emori gave him a reason to live, but he needed to want a reason first. “A little reflecting does wonders, you know? If you can’t love yourself, how could you ever love anyone else. Love isn’t going to save you and all that other self-help book bullshit.”

She snorts as if he’s the crazy one, as if it’s beyond her how he _still_ doesn’t understand, stretching out her arms as she observes the world around them, as if envisioning a different one. “I don’t want love. I want admiration. I want people walking around wanting to be me. Wanting what I have. Knowing they never could. I want to go down in history books. I want to live forever.”

“You’re insane,” Murphy tells her with a sneer, absolutely disgusted. This girl is clinically insane. She doesn’t need him, she needs a therapist.

“I’m sure the child would remind him too much of her anyway,” she muses, and the worst part is she sounds so clinical. So simple. Easy. “I’ll let you have the baby if you keep my secret. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.” Her grin slowly spreads, a challenge hidden within. “How about we get you and the Mrs. that cruise ship, John?”

This time, he shakes it.

* * *

_(+ bonus.)_

Bellamy claps him on the shoulder, his golden cheeks still wet with tears. “Thank you for bringing her back, Murphy.”

“Yeah, uhm.” He clears his throat, thick with emotion. Her dark head of curls, the tiny pudgy fists clutching her mother’s hair, the stupid dumb sounds she makes. “Little hobbit just wouldn’t stop crying, you know?” His eyes flick over to Emori and he sniffs, willing himself to stop being such a little bitch. “After I found her, I mean.”

“We’re so grateful, Murphy,” Clarke presses, and there’s tears on her face too, but something odd about her voice like she’s only half-keeping it together, leaning back against her husband’s chest as she cradles the baby in her hands. It has some of the bluest eyes Murphy has ever seen. They’re really big. “We don’t know how to repay you.”

“No need,” he returns quickly, his mind running blank. He feels Emori’s eyes burn into the side of his face, and he tears his eyes off the baby and looks over at her hoping it’ll jog his memories of what they rehearsed earlier. “I recognized her from the picture on your desk. And I -- I remembered where you live because we’re co-workers. Uhm, you mentioned it once? In the breakroom.”

In storms, Josephine, piece of paper crumpled in her hand. “The reward was 100k and you’re only paying me twenty-thousand?” It’s not like she needs the money, but he suspects she’s just here for the drama, or strike up more credit for her _heroics._ Or to shivv Clarke in front of her family. It’s really out of his hands at this point. “I’m half of the reason John took her here and not to the nearest fire station!”

“You’re paying her twenty-thousand when I’m only getting ten?!” Emori takes a step forward, offended. 

Murphy frowns, feeling like all of this is just an out of body experience. Emori tried to sell the baby on the black market, but as soon as they found out it was the missing Blake-Griffin child, everybody chickened out. Three days of crying and spitting out milk on his favorite shirts and kicking her little feet with her tiny toes, and they all agreed to bring her back in return for the reward money. Well, Josie suggested donating her to an underground lab for genetic experiments and Murphy took the baby and ran. “You guys are getting paid?”

Josephine is seething. Like, one step away from steam out of her ears seething. “You see, you brought back their fucking baby, and they’re still playing you!”

“Josie, shut up,” Emori grits warningly, her hand wrapping around the sleeve of his jacket, as if to ground herself. He can tell she wants to move closer to the other girl, probably suckerpunch her, but also knowing it won’t be a good look now they’re pulling the whole good samaritan act. 

“It’s okay, we can give you more money,” Clarke says, sweetly, too sweetly and Murphy’s head spins, his neck actually cracking as it snaps over to look at her. She’s smirking. _Why_ is she smirking?

“I don’t need anything from _you_ ,” Josie spits, “You’re the one who--” She shakes her head, clamping her mouth shut, and him and Emori let out twin sighs of relief. 

“Performed the Procedure on you?” Clarke’s face sobers, her brows knitting together and her lips curling down sadly. Bellamy’s arm comes up around her shoulders, rubbing her bicep. There’s a tremor in her voice as she speaks. “Yeah, I remember you, Josie. I always have. I remember every face. Every sacrifice we have to make. They all come back to me at night.”

Emori’s pulling on his hand, probably planning a getaway while they’re distracted with Josephine, but he’s frozen in place.

“God, you’re a hypocrite,” she snaps back, eyes narrowed and arms crossed over her chest. It’s clear there’s not much Clarke could say to warrant any sympathy on Josie’s behalf. “Boo-hoo, so you have a conscience. Here you are, holding your _child_.” 

Murphy doesn’t get the big deal. Josie even said she doesn’t _like_ babies. Still, he can’t deny Clarke must be pretty ruthless to make her job out of taking the opportunity away from others against their will.

“Sometimes, you can’t take something down from the outside,” Bellamy responds solemnly, like it weighs heavy on him. Somehow still a bit sanctimonious, too, but Murphy guesses they _did_ just steal his baby. There is no moral high ground here. He raises his eyebrows, thrusts his cellulair device forward so it lights up.

An image in shades of green, of them in that shitty boat that sunk during their getaway, Murphy slumped over on the fishnets, the side of his face pressed against Josie’s thigh, fast asleep. She has the binoculars up to her eyes, keeping watch.

Murphy inwardly curses, Emori stiffening beside him. Bellamy grins smugly at the look on his face, “Looks like your girlfriends will be the ones sharing a bed this time.”

Josephine’s face is a blank slate of impassivity, but it’s clear that, under the surface, something ugly is brewing. Fists shaking at her sides, brown eyes practically on fire. 

Clarke quirks an eyebrow, but there’s a quiet resignation on her face anyway. “Bellamy’s _other_ co-worker Miller is outside. It’s easier on all of us if you go willingly.”

“I laced the baby's milk,” Emori blurts out, and Murphy’s eyes widen as he turns his head to look at her. Her face is unreadable, even to him. 

The tension in the air grows thick, Clarke cuddling her daughter closer to her chest as Bellamy’s eyes rake her tiny body for any signs of distress. She’s still asleep, finally having stopped crying, the lack of sound sweet bliss. 

“We’re going to go,” Emori announces simply, tilting her head slightly. “And we’re taking your motorboat. As soon as we reach the shore, we will leave a message there with the name of the antidote.” Murphy straightens, knowing he can trust her with this. She’s being kind of scary. It’s pretty hot. “There should be enough time, unless you try and stop us in any way.”

Bellamy’s jaw tightens, and he moves away from his wife’s side, fists balled up at his sides. Emori’s voice stops him in his tracks. “John doesn’t know what it is, so don’t even bother. I never got to take the test,” she holds up her hand, challenging look in her eyes, “but I won’t break.”

A moment of tense silence, Clarke’s free hand folding around Bellamy’s elbow, and then he’s swallowing tightly, head flicking slightly towards the other blonde in their midst. “She coming, too?”

Pointedly, Emori looks to him and Murphy’s smirk grows slowly. He already has a partner in crime, and he has to say she’s much better at it. “Nah, you can keep her.”

**Author's Note:**

> you can't call it crack if you're willfully snorting it 🤘


End file.
